The Basement
by Konstantine
Summary: 'Shadows cast by the moonlight dance across the basement floor, and he feels so dead yet so alive.' S/B with slight angst.
1. Part 1

by Jenni   
Rating: PG   
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns Buffy, not me.   
AN: Experimenting with a Hemingway-esque style of writing. So the run-ons are supposed to be like that. Plus, it's my first stab at present tense in a fic.   
AN2: All song lyrics are from "Ben Franklin's Kite" by Something Corporate. I suggest you download the song, and listen to it while reading. Sets a nice mood.   
  
- - - - - -   
_Maybe you're weary  
You always stand so tall  
Maybe you, holier than thou  
Will make me crawl  
I don't claim to be better  
I don't think that you do  
But see I'm weak and incessant  
My addiction's the proof  
_   
- - - - - -   
  
The days pass with alarming speed, as of late. Ever since she killed the Turok-Han things seem to be on fast forward. The only time things have any semblance of slowing down is when she is with him. Maybe that's why she began spending so much time in the basement-things seem simpler there. Or maybe it's because she can't stand being away from him. 

"Where're ya going?" Willow asks as Buffy's hand closes around the basement doorknob. 

"Oh, you know...laundry. Cleaning for twelve now. Scary stuff." Buffy smiles, trying not to look too transparent. 

"Oh. If you want, I can take over laundry duty today." Willow offers. 

Buffy scrunches up her face-pretends she's actually considering. "Nah, that's alright Will," she says. I'd like to escape the potentials. Just for a little." 

"Okay, I getcha. I'll be researching if you need me!" With that, Willow retreats into the living room. 

Buffy gives a short sigh, then twists the knob. Diffused sunlight flanks her as she maneuvers herself and the overflowing laundry basket onto the narrow staircase. She walks softly down the stairs, not wanting to wake Spike if he is asleep, but secretly praying he isn't. A gentle "Hey, Buffy" answers her prayers. 

"Hi Spike." She replies, wondering if she looks as happy as she feels. And hey, why was Spike's presence making her happy anyway? That's definitely odd. And kind of nice. Okay, really nice. 

"Need help sorting?" He questions, pulling his dirty shirt off, and replacing it with a clean button down. 

Buffy's breath catches slightly at the sight of this bare and bruised chest. "God...what that _thing_ did to you!" 

Spike suddenly becomes very self-conscious, and rushes through the final buttons. "It's not as bad as it looks, really," he moves over to the laundry basket, and begins the "whites" pile. 

"Are you sure? I could put some cream or...or _something_..." 

"Pet," he says, gently, looking her in the eyes. "I'm fine. Don't worry over me. Laundry is a much more pressing matter, I assure you." 

She gives him a look that plainly says, "You are so full of crap", but succumbs to the pleading in his eyes. Lately, he has been having that affect on her. It's things like that that confuse her. Has she always cared for him as much as she cares for him now? And if not, when did she start? Last year? This year? She feels another migraine coming on-"Time to be avoidy Buffy," she thinks, adding to Spike's pile-both in the literal and metaphorical sense. 

"So..." Buffy starts. "Seen any good movies lately?" 

Spike looks at her dumbly. Off his look, they both break into laughter. 

"Right, that was a pretty stupid question, huh?" 

"Only slightly. Don't get out much, you know, being chained to the wall at night and all," he laughs. 

Buffy smiles. Genuinely smiles. They're joking together--_laughing_ together! Since when do they do that? Hell, who cares? 

A few breathy chuckles later, there is silence. But for once, it is comfortable silence. Together they work in perfect harmony, and have the laundry sorted in five minutes. 

"You know," Buffy comments, hauling the darks into the washer. "I really don't think it's necessary for you to be chained every night." She reaches for the soap, but he's already a step ahead; he starts the water and dumps it in. 

"Sure, with you around me. But what happens when the first sets off the trigger when you're sleeping? It's better this way." He shuts the lid on the washer and leans against the machine, wrapping his arms around his torso. She's giving him a look. "Look, Buffy, you may think it's ridiculous, but you don't understand what it was like under The First's control. I had no idea what I was doing. I don't think I can live with the guilt of that...again." 

Something moves inside her at the defeated look in his eyes, and presses her small, warm hand against his. "I understand." 

He forgets what he's talking about. Because now she's caressing his knuckles with her small, warm fingers, and he doesn't know if he's dreaming or not. He never knew she could bring herself to be this gentle with him, and he silently thanks her for it. Does she realize that this brief moment of contact will be the driving force to get him through the next however-many days? 

Buffy withdraws her hand. It can't last forever. She hopes someday it might. 

He hides his disappointment within milliseconds, and chooses to change the subject. That's the thing about the two of them; they always know how to avoid the tough conversations. "When was the last time you slept?" 

"7 years ago." She yawns. 

He chuckles, quickly turning serious. "Buffy, you can't overwork yourself. Between your guidance counselor gig and the impending apocalypse...well, it's completely understandable. But Buffy, you need to take a break." 

"Yeah, I know," she sighs, rubbing her tired eyes. "But there never seems to be any time for breaking. Looming badness sucks like that." 

"Look, let me finish the laundry; you can sneak upstairs and catch a few winks, alright?" He offers. 

Buffy thinks for a moment. It only takes a moment. She lets out a huge sigh of relief. "Oh thank God." Her whole body deflates as she shuffles over to Spike's cot. 

Hey, wait a minute. 

"Uh...Buffy?" 

She waves her hand at him in an "I know, I know, just shut up" gesture. "So very sleepy. And hey! Look! Bed right here! Don't even have to walk up a flight of stairs or anything!" 

"Well," he says, trying to cover a grin. "How can I argue with that?" 

"You could try," she yawns, head hitting the pillow. "But you're fighting a losing battle." Buffy nestles herself under the covers, hugging the pillow tightly. She closes her eyes, breathing in the heavy scent of the Spike-smelling bed sheets, and letting it envelope her. It reminds her of heaven. 

- - - - - - 

_And maybe I'm crazy  
But lightning might strike me tonight  
And Maybe I'm crazy   
But lightning might strike me tonight_

- - - - - - 

The buzzer on dryer sounds its high-pitched beep, and Buffy jolts upright in the cot. She'd been having a damn fine dream, too. In it, everything made sense between the two of them, and she thinks that maybe it doesn't have to stay a dream. 

"Sorry," Spike mutters. "Been trying to dampen it, but I forgot on this one." 

Buffy rubs her eyes with the back of her fist. "What time is it?" 

Spike can hardly answer, because she looks disheveled and breathtaking, and he thinks he wouldn't mind waking up to that every morning. But the reality of that thought grounds him-he can't dream like that anymore. "About 7:30, give or take." 

"Did I miss dinner?" 

"Yeah," he replies, retrieving something from the bottom stair. "But I heated this up for you." 

"Leftovers?" 

"What else?" 

"Thanks." She smiles, taking the plate of macaroni and cheese from his hands. She swings her feet over the side of the cot, and digs in. Then the sight of piles and piles of clean and folded laundry floors her. "You did all this," she shakes her head. "I should've helped. You're still healing." 

"What, because laundry's such a contact sport? Don't sweat it, gives me something to do...aside from wallowing in guilt." Of her look, he explains, "It's _wallowing_, not brooding. They're two totally different things." 

"I'm sure." She smiles, downing the last spoonful of dinner. 

"Hey, think what you want, but I'm no poofter." 

"No one's calling you one. But then again...you are the spitting image of a house wife stereotype right about now." 

Spike looks at his hands. As if it's on fire, he drops the box of fabric softener and grins. 

She suddenly turns serious. But it's a gentle serious; like she has something she's been keeping inside that needs to come out. "Spike-" 

"Buffy?" Dawn's voice sounds from the kitchen. 

Buffy frowns, the moment was shattered. "What?" She yells back, eyes never leaving Spike. 

"The girls are ready for patrol...are you coming?" Dawn sounds irritated. 

Buffy looks at Spike. Asks him without really asking. She drops her eyes and shouts back that she'll be up in a minute. 

"You wanna come tonight?" She questions, almost shyly. 

He's taken aback. "Uh, yeah, sure," he says, trying to fit the mold of calm, cool and collected. "Just let me finish up here, and I'll be up in a tick." 

She smiles, softly. He doesn't know if she's smiling for real or because she doesn't know what else to say, until he sees it in her eyes. She's smiling that sparkle-in-her-eyes smile, and it's just for him. And as she gets up to leave her fingers brush past his, and he swears they lingered there for a moment. Or maybe he's still crazy. 


	2. Part 2

by Jenni   
Rating: PG   
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns Buffy, not me.   
AN: Experimenting with a Hemingway-esque style of writing. So the run-ons are supposed to be like that. Plus, it's my first stab at present tense in a fic.   
AN2: All song lyrics are from "Ben Franklin's Kite" by Something Corporate. I suggest you download the song, and listen to it while reading. Sets a nice mood.   
  
**part two**   
- - - - - -   
_Give me an answer  
Why this cancer eats me away   
How this restlessness   
Could turn into a day.   
I fear what comes first   
The things that hide in the night   
But I'm quaking, and shaking   
Even now that it's light_  
- - - - - -   
  
Patrolling had been...confusing. Confusing in little gestures she made, and the way she was concerned when a vamp kicked him into the tombstone and something cracked. The way she ran her fingers over his ribs to check for broken bones, like she wished his shirt wasn't there to separate them from his skin. 

The darkness of the room eats at him like a cancer of the heart. When she was here, it was so bright. She was effervescent. Not at all like she was last year-last year he sucked the light out of her. 

_"Great love is wild and passionate. It burns and consumes."  
"Until there's nothing left. Love that like doesn't exist."_

His love almost destroyed them both. So why was it still there? Why does he still feel it? Shadows cast by the moonlight dance across the basement floor, and he feels so dead yet so alive. Maybe it wasn't the soul that confused him, maybe it was her. 

He wants to rip these chains off the wall and run into the ocean. He wants to feel wind in his hair, and air in his dead lungs. He yearns to be something other than dead. 

But he knows that she's the reason he's so human already-another confusing thought. And even after everything that happened last year... 

_"I'm gonna make you feel it-"_

...he still wants to hold her and be with her and love her and have her love him back. But the soul tells him he's foolish, and the demon tells him too...but every cell in his body still sings for her. So which is the truth?   
  
- - - - - -   
_And maybe you'll find me  
On another lonely street  
By the smell of summer,  
after she rains  
Maybe you'll loose me  
All together in her heat  
Let this humid air  
Take away my pain  
_ - - - - - -   
  
She knows he's awake, chained to the wall in his cot, contemplating the shadows on the floor and the meaning of life. And there she is, awake, sitting with her knees pulled to her chest, contemplating the shadows on the floor and finding it impossible to drag her thoughts away from him. Away from how she cares for him so, and how she doesn't think she could go on breathing if something else happened to him. It was too hard when The First and its rotten Turok-Han had him. So then why did she act like she has feelings for principal Wood? Sitting there, on that couch with Spike, telling him how she wasn't ready for him not to be there...seeing his face when she had no answer as to how the principal fit in...she knows now that she can never have a normal life, with the principal or anyone else. She can only have the life she chooses for herself. 

She knows what she has to do, and it scares her to death. 

She slips out of bed and heads for the basement--like moth to flame, only without the burning. Each step brings a new thought to mind. 

Does he still love me?  
Is he thinking about me right now?  
Is that wrong, if he is?  
He tried to hurt me last year.  
But why can't I let him go? 

Now she's at the basement door, hand inches from the doorknob. 

Do I love him? 

Her hand drops to her side. 

_Do I love him?_

The promise of spring blows through the crack in the kitchen window, and she thinks she does. Suddenly the door's open, and she's headed down the stairs. 

He lifts his head, like he's not surprised to see her standing before him, clad in a tank top and yummy sushi pajama pants. 

She steps forward, and unlocks the cuffs around his wrists so he can stand too. And now he's looking at her with wonder and love, with their hands touching each other's faces inches apart. Suddenly, he's not confused anymore and neither is she. 

"I'm falling in love with you," she whispers against his lips before she takes them with her own. When he returns the kiss, she thinks she could cry because she's so happy. Then she realizes she already is, and so is he. And she thinks she's been so stupid, for wasting so much time not loving him, and tells him so. But he hushes her with his lips, telling her that time has no meaning when it comes to love. Another kiss tells her he's right. There is only love. 

**THE END**

- - - - - - 

(Ok, so I suck at endings. But maybe it's better that way.) 


End file.
